Gun Shy Trigger Happy
by Anne Bowman
Summary: I said I wanted to be alone with him. He said he wanted to be alone with her. She said she wanted to be alone...
1. plan your attack

Disclaimer: I own 5 copies of my favorite book, but not one character in this story, nor any of the song lyrics contained herein.

_I go wild 'cause you break me open,  
wild 'cause you left me here_

I'm not paranoid. I can feel their eyes on me every time I leave the apartment now. I never even have to look in a mirror anymore, because my own appearance is reflected in their faces.

I hate the words they don't say. I guess they think they're being polite, or maybe just careful, but they don't have to say anything. I hear it all anyway. There is always guarded concern in the eyes of most of the band members: will their mostly-steady gig be over soon? That's all right, though. I can handle that.

Irene is the worst; or, rather, the best. She can carry on entire conversations without ever saying a word, or without saying words that are remotely related to what she's really saying. "So we'll go to Chicago on the 10th," for example, really means, "I don't know what's wrong with you, sweetheart, but you better get it together by the 10th or we'll all be coming after you with torches and pitchforks."

She's constantly telling me in her little covert languages to think of the people who depend on me. I know she's got everyone's best interests at heart. The band, herself, the roadies, herself, the kids, herself... I know that's not fair, but it's kind of painful to realize that your best friend has given up on you, even if she doesn't have the guts to actually leave your side.

In fact, it's only in the last day or two that a new worry has spread through her little sidelong glances and nonchalant small talk. She thinks I've relapsed, that I'm secretly hitting the bottle every night when I go home to an empty apartment, one that's free of any trace that anyone's ever lived there but me.

I can't stand that she thinks I'm that weak, but I don't really blame her, either. I guess the symptoms are similar.

It would be an outright lie to say I haven't been tempted. Since the kids left and I sold that awful house and moved into the apartment, there isn't much else to think about during those long, quiet hours between late afternoon and morning. Sometimes I lie there and try to remember how it feels and then I try to remember why remembering how it feels is a grave mistake.

It's been 20 years next month since you left. Did you know that? 20 years, and what have I done with myself? Well, I did raise your children, and under the circumstances I think I did a fine job. They're not without their problems, but I don't take all of the blame for those.

I gave them a mostly happy little life for as long as I could. For as long as it lasted, I could feel normal and happy, too. Now there's nothing for me; just the increasingly mechanical routines of my ever more myopic daily life.

If there's one recurring theme in life, I think I've identified the theme of mine: brief moments of pure joy followed by everlasting, crushing grief, accompanied by remorse, blame, self-blame, and regret. She left, you left, they left. One by one, and here I am, the last man standing.

So sometimes I do crave it now, that tenuous disconnection from the ground beneath your feet and the person beside you and the person inside you. And I don't blame her, and probably everyone else who knows about those days, for thinking that's what this is.

But it isn't.

Sometimes I think I see your face in the moment right before everything ends. I haven't slept in seven days and eight nights. I don't know how long I can keep avoiding what's waiting for me there, but I do know I can't face it again right now. It's been so long since I've seen you, or felt you, or heard you. When I couldn't, I thought it was the only thing in the world I honestly wanted. Maybe, I thought, it was the only thing left that could make me feel whole again.

Now all I want is for you to leave me alone.

It happened every night for a week before I stopped sleeping altogether.

The first dream ended with a surprise attack by a stranger who smiled at me with your mouth and stared at me through your eyes. A strong hand on my arm, a second wrapped around a weapon, and then there was no pain, not even a sound. I could feel all the blood in my body being sucked toward the new opening, just below my heart, and flowing out, into my hands, into yours. I watched you, I never blinked, as you lowered me to the ground and looked right back at me as the colors faded, until everything was over.

The second dream was longer. I climbed stairs for an eternity until I reached the rooftop of some tall city building. That same stranger opened the door from the stairway to the roof for me. I paid no attention to him, or to you. I just walked calmly to the edge and dove straight off. I fell, and fell, and fell, finally free. Again, I felt nothing.

The third night I drowned myself.

The fourth night it was strangulation.

The fifth involved a knife-throwing act, of all things. (You were more accurate than I would have guessed.)

The sixth and seventh nights were the most vivid, and the most mundane. Night 6, I drove my car off a bridge. Night 7, I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street.

After the first night, I woke up with a fresh wound in the same place as it had been in the dream. Night two, my entire body ached, as if my bones had shattered and been stitched back together, bit by bit. The third night, I woke up with the taste of salt in my mouth. Night four, I woke up with a few light bruises on my neck. The fifth night, I found small scratches all over my arms, and one deeper remnant in the center of my chest.

On both the sixth and seventh nights, I woke up with my keys in my hand.

What is it? What do you want? What are you trying to tell me?

I can't rest again until I know you're gone. And I feel that you're still here. So I won't sleep. Instead, I go for walks at night. There's no one around to wait up for me or worry. I like to walk down the center of the road, bare feet against sun-warmed gravel that hasn't lost the heat. I watch the stoplights change, just for me.

I'll find other ways to keep myself occupied at night. I'll wait you out. I'll keep finding new ways to prove to you that you have no power here anymore.

For many years, when I thought of you, I always thought I had done something to make you leave that night. I thought that if I had done something different, our lives would never have changed. You would still be here.

It's taken me a lot of sleepless nights to figure it out: you left me because you wanted to leave. Nothing I could have said would have made you stay with me that night, or any other.

So I'll stay awake forever if that's what it takes. I'm prepared to fight, and I'll fight you this time just to prove I can.

I just wish I knew what it is you've come back to prove.

(_you've got a lot of nerve to come back  
plan your attack, and I am still waiting  
did you want something?_)

- - -

_Poe, "Wild"_


	2. and maybe some faith

_you're all I need  
__and maybe some faith would do me good_

The change was relatively gradual, but everybody picked up on it right away. We all just watched out of some morbid fascination, watching and waiting to see what would happen next.

First the circles beneath her eyes grew deeper, and then her already angular features hollowed out further. Soon she was forgetting lyrics, appointments, conversations, inhibitions. She took up smoking and I believe she genuinely thought no one noticed the way she'd disappear practically in the middle of a sentence for a break. Her favorite tea was replaced by coffee, and friendly small talk became a thing of the past.

Then I started hearing things. People whispering about how they had heard about her and Rick and what happened back in the day. People whispering about job opportunities and connections, phone numbers passed surreptitiously down the line during lunch. No one wanted to actually admit they'd given up on her, but their false attempts to show concern were pathetically transparent.

And so, for a while, we all walked on eggshells around her, no one daring to speak to her directly. No one wanted to have their worst fears confirmed from the source herself.

The truth that no one else knows is that all of this really started happening a few months ago when Jack went off to school. It was the end of the summer. Annie's parents came to pick her up (finally). Everyone thought Fi would come back as planned, but when she announced that she wanted to finish high school in Seattle, her mother couldn't just say no.

I suppose I don't blame everyone for jumping to conclusions. But I get the feeling that there's more going on here than just a sudden bout of depression and its related symptoms.

I've ignored the whispers and the phone numbers, and I've ignored my own mother, who actually told me the other night about some band whose guitar player chased a whole bottle of headache medicine with liquid drain cleanser.

Who would want to be in a band that apparently drove its last guitar player to believe that a really painful (and, it should be noted, creative) suicide method was a better option than to continue playing with them?

But more importantly, why is everyone just standing by? If they think she's going to self-destruct, why isn't anyone trying to help?

Ever since I came back from college, it feels like we've actually come to be friends. Sometimes on the tour, when Annie was with us, I'd leave her to Jack and Clu to deal with while Molly told me about the old days, how the band got started, how they met, how they met John, the bands they used to share stages with, the groupies, the bad reviews, the stage fright and the rush, and I'd just soak all that history in. It's fascinating, the stories she has to tell.

No one ever asks.

As we all watch her quietly implode, I find myself wondering more and more about the person we've never been allowed to know, the version of her that existed before Rick. What's supposed to happen now that she's all grown up and her husband and her children are gone? Is she supposed to become that person again? Maybe that's what this is about. Maybe this is who she used to be.

Speculation would be just as pointless as the idle gossip the roadies pass around when she's not listening. I know the only way to get to the bottom of this is to go directly to her.

So tonight's the night. I'll come by, I'll get her alone, I'll cut to the chase.

I'll tell her what's going on behind the scenes and I'll be perfect and sympathetic, and she'll smile for the first time in a month because she's so touched by my concern.

She'll sit down beside me and spill the whole story, and I'll listen like I always do.

Maybe she'll ask me what she should do now. I probably won't tell her the solution that's on my mind. Even though the answer has been obvious this whole time, she'll appreciate that I saw through the haze that's been confounding her to point it out.

And then the mystery will be solved. The problem will be gone. And I'll be someone new to her. I'll be the only person she knows who cared enough to come to her instead of deserting the sinking ship.

Who knows what might happen next?

(_baby, say that it's all gonna be alright  
I believe that it isn't_)

- - -

_Fiona Apple, "On the Bound"_


	3. do I dare believe

_two are born to cross: their paths, their lives, their hearts  
if by chance one turns away, are they forever lost?_

I knew this time would come. Eventually someone would get the idea that a little intervention was called for, and give it the old college try. I didn't think it would be him, though. Maybe the others elected him to be their representative; after all, I'd be less likely to bite his head off. But that didn't really make any sense. I expected Irene—no one ever won a fight with her and lived to tell the tale.

I wished I could just break down and confess, but if I told them what was really going on, I'd be in more trouble than if I just let them believe what they want to believe. Then again, I thought, maybe a stay in a mental facility might be nice. Three meals a day, maybe some sedatives…

When he asked for a ride home after the show, it seemed like an innocent request.

We drove in silence for most of the way, with the radio keeping us company, together alone. When I stopped sleeping, edges became sharper, which tended to make driving even more of an adventure than it already was. I felt hypersensitive, trigger happy, ready to swerve at the slightest hint of trouble in the road. I intently studied the road ahead of us for foreign objects or stupid animals testing Darwinism.

He broke the appropriately-unspoken no talking rule. Or maybe I spoke first.

"What?" I said, trying to seem understanding, but it came out sharper than I'd intended. I bit back the urge to instantly apologize.

"I didn't say anything." He was, perhaps understandably, defensive.

"I'm sorry," I conceded. "I'm just… you know… off my game lately. A little paranoid, apparently. I mean, I don't know if you've noticed." I laughed bitterly.

It was quiet then, until he spoke up, as if he had been practicing: "Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about that."

"Yeah, listen, I know, I've heard it already from your mother and everyone else."

"She talked to you?"

"Well, no. But she didn't have to. I know what you all think is going on, and I want you to just trust me when I tell you that that's really not the problem. But I promise, I'm working on it, so just let it rest, okay? "

Another pause. He asked very quietly, as if someone might overhear, "What _is_ going on, if it's not what they think?"

I caught the opportunity to take the conversation in a different direction, and I jumped at it. "They?"

"Yeah, you know, my mom, the band, the roadies…"

"I know who 'they' are. Are they the only ones who think that?"

"More like I'm the only one who doesn't, really," he admitted.

This quiet declaration of faith softened my defenses considerably. I genuinely considered telling him the truth. But that just wasn't an option. Being honest about what was going on would just make me seem even more crazy than everyone already thought I was, and even if a stint in a straitjacket might not be the worst fate imaginable, my confession would certainly break that faith I suddenly found so admirable.

"Well," I said finally. "I appreciate that, Carey. Thank you."

"You're avoiding the question, though," he pointed out.

"Yeah." I tried a smile.

"Well, even if it is true," he said, trying again to coax out the truth, "I just want you to know that we're all, you know, supportive, and we really do just want to help."

I just laughed. So here it came, and what was I supposed to do now? Even if I were to tell someone about what's really going on, why would it be him, and not Irene, or even my own kids? I shook my head in an attempt to clear it and kept my mouth shut as we pulled into the driveway of his house. I turned the lights and then the engine off and looked at him expectantly, but he seemed to have no intention of moving.

I continued to stare at him, a challenge. He said nothing and didn't bother to meet my gaze. Finally I looked away too and we sat there as it began to rain, the drops hitting the car like sudden gunfire. Everything seemed heightened in the state I was in; sound, feeling, light, darkness, taste… everything was magnified, and nothing felt real.

My fingers began to itch for a cigarette, so the urge to get him out of the car became even stronger, but I couldn't bring myself to just say "get out." I'd let him say what he wanted to say; I just wished he would hurry up.

We sat and stared in opposite directions, as I became more and more anxious for him to leave. I was working up the nerve to issue that command when I felt his hand cover mine. A simple touch; in some cases, completely impersonal, like a sympathetic banker or a dentist or a cashier. Somehow, my breathing returned to normal and my heart slowed, and even the itch dulled.

"Look, I'm just saying that if you need someone to talk to, I could be that person, that's all." He took his hand off mine and I heard the door lock slide open.

"Wait," I said quickly. He paused and looked back. "I'll tell you." He slammed the door again, and then it was his turn to wait.

So I took a deep breath, and I told him about the dreams, and that I hadn't been sleeping because I knew one day I wouldn't wake up. I even told him about you.

The only explanation I can come up with for this sudden burst of disclosure is that being like this removed a lot of my usual inhibitions. Maybe I would have turned that inner angst into a song in the old days. Now, I find myself indiscriminately spilling my guts to someone barely old enough to buy alcohol.

I know that description is unfair. And it wasn't exactly indiscriminate. At the time, he was the only person I would have even considered telling. His response is probably why. It was perfect. Sympathetic. Understanding, if not completely convinced. But firm in the conviction that I should stop avoiding sleep.

"It was probably just a completely random kind of thing," he assured me, and I wished I could believe that. But what did he know about it? Instead of offering a rebuttal, I just smiled. "I'm serious, though. I could steal some of my mom's sleeping pills, if you want," he offered.

"That's okay," I said. "I'm really not ready to go through that again tonight, you know? Just in case."

"You can't run from it forever."

I nodded, although I wasn't sure I agreed. "Listen, Carey, it's important that you don't tell anyone about this right now, okay?"

"Of course."

Of course. What else would he do but keep my secret? His loyalty was strangely touching, a nice respite from the anger and depression that was so pervasive the rest of the time. "Thank you."

"Yeah," he said, smiling a little again. "I should go in now, they'll wonder what's keeping me."

"Yeah," I agreed. He opened the door and began to get out, but turned back suddenly, sliding back inside and closing the door. "What is it?"

Impulsively, he leaned across the seat and kissed me, forcefully. I was too surprised to respond, and after a few seconds, he pulled back and seemed to examine my face for a clue about what I was thinking. It must have looked pretty bad, because he immediately said, "I'm so sorry," and got out again, without looking back this time.

"What was that?" I said aloud, and sat there in the dark for quite a few minutes before starting the engine again.

I headed back to my empty room with the sincere intention to forget about it, whatever it was.

(_yet I still wonder, is there a point to what we do?  
'cause I kind of doubt that there is something more besides you_)

- - -

_ Cowboy Junkies, "Something More Besides You"_


	4. not the easy way

_I think you feel the way I feel, though you don't want to say  
I think you feel the way I feel, though it's not the easy way_

It's a little funny how a tired cliché can suddenly seem so profound in the middle of the night.

The house was perfectly quiet and all the voice in my head wanted to talk about was the old idea that a single moment can change your life forever.

Tonight, for the first time, I really felt like I understood what that meant. I knew I should be more remorseful about crossing that line that I really, really didn't mean to cross. But things were bound to change eventually anyway, so why not take the initiative?

Part of me really wanted to hang on to what was already there. But part of me had to know what else there could be.

It was a while before I noticed that the rain had stopped pounding against the roof, the windows, the ground. I looked outside and it turned out that the aggressive rain had frozen into snow that now simply dropped passively.

I fought the urge to call her. Who would know? Who might hear? I could choose my words carefully, keep it ambiguous. "Who were you talking to?" "Oh, just some girl. Sorry I woke you up." If it even came to that. But I'd whisper, just in case.

But fear of being found out wasn't the real reason I successfully restrained myself from dialing that all-too-familiar number.

The real reason, obviously, was that it had been heartbreakingly clear from the shell-shocked look on her face that she had never, ever even considered the possibility of me being anything more to her than a friend, or maybe even just a kid.

Somehow I had thought it would be easier than this.

I hadn't exactly planned on doing what I did, but nothing about our conversation had gone quite the way I did plan. The idea behind it all had been that she secretly felt the way I secretly felt and my first move toward changing the "secretly" part of that would be so smooth and successful that everything would just kind of fall into place.

So, was I wrong? Was it simply the days on end of insomnia that gave her the appearance of being tired, disappointed, and crushingly impassive?

How could I have so completely misjudged our entire relationship?

I knew I should have left things between us the way they were. Everyone had been happy, then--happy about that, at least. And that really was what I had planned to do.

If only the rumors had been true. Then everything could have gone like I thought it would, and I wouldn't be sitting here in the middle of the night trying not to think about the way she's going to avoid me the next time I see her, the awkward, cold silence that will undoubtedly take the place of our old late-night discussions.

But the rumors weren't true, and it was such a relief that suddenly my focus shifted away from her problem, which might have seemed laughably insignificant to someone who hadn't seen the things we had over the years. I realized that she actually risked sounding completely insane to share this with me, when she hadn't opened up about what was going on to anyone else at all. Not even my mom.

I began to wonder if that could possibly mean what I thought it might mean.

I wanted to call. I wanted to hear her say it was okay, that I hadn't destroyed everything forever. But I didn't, because what I wanted most of all was to defy conventional wisdom, and write my own story: it takes two moments can change your life forever; one to screw things up, and the second one to fix it all.

The second moment would be much easier to plan than the first. No more unpredictability.

I knew what I needed to fix and I'd make a plan for fixing it. I'd decide which way to go based on the way she acted around me over the next couple of days. The conclusions drawn from my observation of her behavior would lead me to either push harder for what I wanted to happen, or back off from it entirely, and pretend I never wanted it to happen either.

Both potential paths were pretty scary.

I started to think about those people who say that choosing one option over another creates an alternate universe where another version of you gets to live out your life the way you would have if you'd chosen the unchosen option.

It was kind of a creepy idea, but it did provide a little bit of comfort as I drifted off to sleep.

At least one version of me would get what he wanted.

(_I don't want to cause you any pain, I just want to love you  
I don't want to fuck up anything, I just want to love you_)

- - -

_Lori Carson, "Snow Come Down"_


	5. a terrible fix

_the trouble with dreams is they don't come true  
and when they do, they can catch up to you _

I kept Carey's words in mind the next night, and tried a little harder to keep my troubles private. Everyone seemed relieved.

Once in a while, I'd sneak a glance his way, but most of the time he studiously avoided my gaze. Even during the show, our usual chemistry was off. It felt like I'd done something wrong, and that was seriously starting to annoy me.

_I_ wasn't the one who started casting random kisses at inappropriate objects of unrequited affection.

It became a game: I chased him into corners without moving an inch. The game would be endearing if it wasn't so infuriating.

_Look at me!_ I screamed silently at him, but he either ignored me or didn't bother to listen.

After the show, I cheerily told everyone good night and announced I was leaving.

When he came out the back door alone not long after I left, I grabbed him by the arm and whispered the command: _come with me_.

He didn't protest. I shot furtive glances into the darkness to make sure no one was watching as we hobbled at an awkward speed toward my car. I opened the unlocked passenger door and pushed him inside. He kind of smirked at this unlikely concept but obeyed, pulling his own legs inside and closing the door. I locked the driver's door behind me and glared at him. He maintained a forward gaze, steadily staring out the windshield.

"All right," I said calmly. "What the hell, Carey? Why are _you_ avoiding _me_? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"I sort of expected it to be mutual," he murmured.

"But I haven't done anything wrong."

"So you do think it was 'wrong.'" He looked disappointed; I knew I'd have to choose my next words carefully.

"No… I just think it was one of those things that happens. We don't have to talk about it. It doesn't have to mean anything."

He shook his head indignantly; I mistook it for repentance.

"Hey," I said lightly. "It's okay, you're forgiven." I laughed a little, trying to soften the impact, but I was taken aback by the vehemence of his nearly-hostile reaction.

"You forgive me?" he asked incredulously.

I just nodded.

"Well, what if I'm not sorry?"

"Then I don't forgive you, I guess," I replied, slightly dumbfounded.

"Good!"

"Fine!"

I interrupted his sulking after an excruciating silence. "I guess you can go, then."

"I am sorry," he said finally. "It just seemed like . . . something . . . I don't know. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

He reached for the door handle, but before he turned it, I impulsively touched his hand, an echo of the gesture he'd performed the night before.

He stopped and turned to look at me, waiting for anything. I really wasn't sure what to say at all.

Should I look at this more seriously? No; that was pretty ridiculous.

Was it possible that there _was _some mysterious 'something'?

Should I apologize again for leading him to believe that I felt something that I didn't?

Was I even sure that I didn't?

I mean, it was obvious that I couldn't, for so many reasons. Still, I hated to let him down so clumsily. I opened my mouth and closed it again. His expression didn't fade, though: he was willing to patiently wait for me to put the words together.

"I just don't know," I said finally, after reviewing our history for several minutes. "I mean, maybe, yeah, okay, but--"

"I knew it." He smiled triumphantly.

"Well, wait a second--"

"I knew it."

"Stop that. What I'm trying to say is that of course it's impossible. It's impossible to even think about. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if anyone found out?"

"I know," he said seriously.

"You've thought about that, but you still…?"

"Yeah, I still do."

"Well," I said, as if it should have been obvious, "I just can't."

"You can. You won't."

"It's not that easy."

"It isn't anything but easy."

"Don't you ever think about the future?"

"Don't you ever stop thinking about the future?"

"Feel free to stop that, too."

"Don't tell me what to do." He grinned again, and I really hated letting him feel as if he'd won something or gained some ground. Because he hadn't. Of course he hadn't. There was no ground to gain, was there?

"It's completely insane."

"Okay," he said, still grinning obnoxiously. "Of course you're right. It's crazy." He reached for the door handle again.

"Wait. Just… wait, okay?" 

I knew I wasn't helping matters.

I decided to concede this round; he could win tonight, and I would forfeit. I'd just make up for it next time.

(I would say later that it must have been the insomnia attacking my inhibitions that made me give in so easily. It clearly had an effect on my ability to carry on conversations with just about anyone, because the concept of small talk had seemed detestable for days. I couldn't have been very pleasant to be around.)

I sighed and closed my eyes, letting the rest of my defenses drain away.

He knew what would happen next.

He closed the door.

(_if you let me down, it's all right  
at least that leaves something for me  
because you know I've got an awful lot of big dreams_)

_- - - _

_Eels, "Trouble With Dreams" _


	6. a talented mind

_what you've done here  
is put yourself between a bullet and a target _

When I got back into the car, she didn't say anything else. I began to wonder if she'd really spoken at all, or if I had just pretended she said what I wanted to hear.

Finally, she started the car, and we drove in silence. We ended up at her apartment, but she still didn't talk. I figured she meant for me to follow her when she got out of the car. She left the door open after she unlocked it and went inside.

It's not what you think. Nothing happened.

I stood in front of the door awkwardly with my hands jammed in my pockets, waiting for a sign. She tossed her car keys onto the kitchen counter and the sound of the impact was jarring. It was practically still echoing when she folded herself onto one end of her couch. I sat down on the other side and there we were in the dark, like guilty teenagers awaiting punishment.

Maybe she was waiting for me to say something. I froze. The reality of this was beginning to sink in. For the first time, I was a little afraid. I closed my eyes to clear my head, and when I opened them again it was like I was suddenly possessed by the spirit of someone much bolder than myself.

I looked over at her and for a second I wondered if maybe she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. I've heard about people who can do that if they're tired enough, and if she hadn't slept for however long she hadn't slept for, it wasn't impossible. I decided to make a careful and cautious move anyway and see what happened.

She didn't fight it, but after a minute she put both her hands on my shoulders and put some distance between us. "Not tonight, okay?" she said gently.

I was just relieved to hear her say anything at all, some indication that she wasn't asleep or dead. I nodded, and she twisted her mouth into a small smile that looked painful, even in the dark, when the lines on her face had receded into the shadows.

I smiled back at her, stupid and hopeful, and took one of her hands and pulled her into a reclining position with me, so that I was flat on the couch and she was half on the couch and half on me, her face turned toward the ceiling.

She said, "I want you to think about this."

It was my turn to be silent.

"Things could never be the same," she continued. "Or we could stop it right here. You could let me drive you home. Nothing has to change."

I couldn't think of anything to say. It was pretty obvious that this was her way of offering herself an out, disguised as offering me one.

She was right, of course; nothing could ever be the same if we didn't stop here. I could hear her breathing change, just barely. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it eased my mind a little.

It was so difficult to figure out whether this was worth sacrificing the things that would die as a result of what might happen. In the end, the dilemma I kept thinking about wasn't whether my parents and my friends would hate me but whether it would be worth avoiding a bitter end down the line by never going far enough to make anyone bitter.

And I decided that it wasn't worth never knowing.

Maybe that was a foolish choice.

I told her I wasn't going to change my mind but that it was her choice, too. I wasn't the only one with sacrifices to make.

She said she was too tired to care about any of the things she might lose anymore.

I wondered if she meant me. I didn't ask.

She took one of my hands in hers and I was surprised at how cold her touch suddenly was. The shock faded as she absorbed my warmth, turning me colder while she heated up a little.

We just lay there like that for a while, together, whispering like we were trying to keep a secret from prying ears. It occurred to me that we made a pretty strange pair: I was too old to be young, she was too young to be old.

Maybe I should have made her push herself ahead into the next stage of her life instead of encouraging her to fall back into old habits. I don't know. I'm pretty tired myself now.

I couldn't be sure if minutes or hours had passed by the time she finally sat up and said, "I should take you home now."

I walked to the door, while she retrieved her keys from the counter. When she came closer to me I opened the door to let her pass through, but she paused instead of passing by. She raised up on tiptoes to kiss me chastely and then she dropped down to her normal level again. "I hope this works out," she said, looking out the door instead of at me. "It's still not too late to stop. Nothing's happened yet that can't be taken back. But if you're sure, I guess you can meet me here tomorrow night at 12. Bring your own car."

The disguise she tried to lay over her own pessimism by putting the decision to pursue this or not in my hands just made me more determined to prove she was wrong--about me, about herself, about what this was or what it could be.

So I did meet her the next night, driven by obstinacy as much as anything else.

But I was wrong, and she was right.

Things never were quite the same after that.

(_and it won't be long before  
you're pulling yourself away_)

- - -

_Citizen Cope, "Bullet and a Target"_


	7. i fell into

AN: The song is "Turn It On," by Sleater-Kinney.

_don't say the word  
if you don't want it done  
don't tell me your name  
if you don't want it sung  
_  
"Your family," I said thoughtfully, stretching out beside him in a tangled mass of sheets. "Mine. The age difference, of course."  
  
"Of course," he agreed with more than a little bemusement.  
  
"And," I added, "I really don't want to be one of those skanks who sleeps with her whole band."  
  
"You're planning on sleeping with your whole band?"  
  
"Well, I'm just saying, it could start a trend."  
  
"Sarah McLachlan isn't a skank," he pointed out. "She married her drummer."  
  
_don't come any closer  
that's good enough  
don't go away  
I can't stand the thought  
_  
"We're not getting married, and her drummer probably isn't 20 years her junior."  
  
"Well, Patti Smith has a companion 26 years younger than she is."  
  
"Patti Smith is-how do you know who she's dating? How do you even know who Patti Smith is?"  
  
He gasped. "What, you think I'm both young and stupid?"  
  
I laughed but didn't answer.  
  
"Oh, now I'm hurt," he said. "That wounds me, Molly. Seriously."   
  
_it's too warm  
inside your hands  
it's too hard  
it's too good  
_  
"No, _I'm_ serious," I persisted.   
  
"No, _you're_ reaching."  
  
"Well, maybe I am," I said defensively, hating myself for the wave of irritation rising inside, forcing itself outward through words I knew better than to choose. "What would you call it? I pay you--basically--and then you sleep with me. Doesn't that make one of us a--"  
  
"Except that I wouldn't sleep with you for what you pay me," he teased.   
  
"You're mocking me now, aren't you?"   
  
"No. Maybe a little. But now that you mention it, maybe this would be a good time to negotiate a little pay increase?"   
  
_it's just that when you touched me  
I could not stand up  
I fell into  
I fell down  
_  
I couldn't help but laugh.  
  
"Seriously, you should consider it. I mean, I live at home, so it isn't a big deal, but have you seen Judy's place? I don't know she can live there on a daily basis."  
  
"No, I haven't." When had he? "When have you?"  
  
I hated him for the smirk that passed over his features at the perception of jealousy, no matter how well-founded it might or might not be. He paused for effect, then relented: "She used to let me stay at her place when I'd been out late and didn't want to deal with, you know, stuff. For a while I was spending the night pretty constantly," he said with a perceptible tinge of nostalgia. When was this? What had he been out late doing that he wouldn't want to face the reaction at home?  
  
I didn't ask him any of these questions, though I was fairly dying to know the answers. I kept cool and quiet until he laughed again at some private memory. "Denise, actually, used to joke that she wondered if something was going on between Judy and me since she found me on the couch nearly every morning."  
  
"Denise?" He didn't respond, waiting for me to put it together. "Oh. Oh? Really?"  
  
"Yeah," he said patiently.  
  
"How could I not know that? She's been with us for years."  
  
"You're pretty self-involved sometimes." I could tell he was trying to be careful. It would be pointless to defend myself; I couldn't disagree with that assessment.   
  
_why can't you tell me  
is it worth a fight?  
do i sound crazy  
well i just might  
_  
"The point is, there are a lot of reasons why we shouldn't be doing this."  
  
"There are," he agreed.   
  
"So explain to me again why was this the right thing to do."  
  
"Because either we can look at those reasons and get scared and run away, or we can be brave and strong and face them. Deal with them."  
  
I wasn't convinced, but I pretended to be.  
  
_why do your words have to ring so false?  
why do your eyes have to change so much?  
it's too warm inside your hands  
it's too hard, it's too good  
_  
I don't know how it happened. We were talking and the next thing I knew it was morning and I was alone, for reasons that were obvious and understandable. My instinct to be forgiving was quickly diminished when I realized that I couldn't open the bedroom door. I couldn't figure out how he had locked it from the outside, but it held firm despite my best attempts to get it open. Perhaps he'd enlisted the help of a kitchen chair. What really confused me was why? I stumbled into the bathroom and found a note taped to the mirror. In block letters, it simply said, "sleep now." I considered my options. Climbing out the window would probably work. But the sunlight that leaked through the blinds was jarring and unpleasant, as I'd become increasingly nocturnal as the result of the now-broken sleep fast. I returned to bed and, despite the persistent dull fear of what might happen, did as I had been told.  
  
_it's just that when you touched me  
I could not stand up  
I fell into  
I fell down  
_  
Succumbing to my body's gnawing desire for sleep was like eating the forbidden apple. You can think of a million reasons not to, but maybe the consequences are worth it for the feeling of undoubtedly immense pleasure you'll get after you give in to temptation. At first, it was the best physical feeling I've had in my entire life, facing the soothing darkness. But then the dream faded in. It seemed to have already started by the time I showed up. This time I was on the outside, watching myself and the stranger with the face of a person I once knew as the final confrontation edged closer. I can't remember the exact plot, I didn't write it down. But the outcome was different. This time instead of waking up to death, I survived. Wounded and hardened, but I made it through. The stranger simply disappeared. What the hell was that supposed to mean? What was he trying to tell me this time?  
  
_just turn it on, you can turn it on  
you can turn it into my song  
turn it all night long  
turn it on, turn it on, turn it on, turn it on  
_  
Would it be safe to sleep at night now? Had I unwittingly achieved something somehow? Had he simply tired of performing the same act night after night? I tried to clear my head after I dragged myself out of bed. It was 6pm and the sun was gone. I got dressed and, for lack of anything better to do, simply waited. By 6:30 he was there, opening the door with a broad smile. "Did you? You look a little better."  
  
"Thanks," I said, unable to stay annoyed in the face of his obvious and somewhat touching concern for my welfare. "Yes, I did."  
  
"I'm sorry about the door thing."  
  
"Yeah, it's all right."  
  
"I locked the front door when I left so no one could break in or anything," he added.  
  
"Thanks," I said again, sincerely this time.   
  
I still had misgivings about this whole thing, of course, those nagging issues that continued to play on an endless loop in my head. But if he had been out to endear himself to me completely, he had accomplished his goal. You'd be surprised how many people would be willing to let you kill yourself if they were still getting what they wanted out of you. I guess I've always been a sucker for someone who actually cares whether I live or die   
  
_don't say the word   
if you don't want it done  
don't tell me your name   
if you don't want it sung_


	8. the truth is

AN: If I was a more disciplined writer I'd probably engage in some editing since I usually like to keep my chapters to around 1,000 words and this one is over twice that, but, well, I'm not, so I won't. :) Lucky you? Anyway, the song is "Abandoned," by Lucinda Williams.

  
I left early that night. When I saw her again the next afternoon, it was as if she had become someone entirely different. I caught her alone in a hallway at the club. She leaned against the wall for support with one arm as she moved slowly away from me. I came up from behind and put my hands on her hips and said something inane that I can't remember now as a greeting. What I do remember is this: she stiffened quickly although she knew it was me and her skin was cold. She moved away from me, which seemed to take considerable effort, before turning around. She looked like she'd been dead for a week.  
  
"Are you okay?" Definitely one of the stupidest questions I've asked in my life, up there with "What does the tooth fairy do with your teeth?" and "So, Annie, you write songs too?"  
  
She kind of laughed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm perfect."  
  
"What's wrong, I mean?"  
  
"I don't know. Of course I couldn't sleep last night. I ended up throwing up everything I've eaten in my entire life instead."  
  
"You're not--?" I wasn't horrified by the idea exactly, so I'm not sure why it was the first thing that popped into my mind.   
  
Another half-laugh. "No, that's definitely not it."  
  
"What do you think it is, then?"  
  
"I don't know, but it's bad." She coughed as if on cue.  
  
"You should go see a doctor right away," I said, moving toward her.  
  
She moved away in perfect step, kind of a tragic dance, with her hands raised against me in surrender or warning. "I'll be fine. Just don't--don't interfere."  
  
I could tell then, by the somewhat stricken look on her face at my concern, just what or who she thought had caused her sudden illness. I did some backing up of my own, not sure what to say to that. She took a few tentative steps in my direction and smiled a little as if to soften the already-landed blow of what I'd realized. I was about to find the right words when she simply fell.

_all of my love  
has been taken for granted  
I've been fair  
but you've been underhanded_

We couldn't do much but cancel the show and take Molly home. I told my mother that she had been resistant to the idea of going to a doctor. "Yeah," she said softly. We stood in the doorway, watching for any sign of change. "Don't worry about it. I mean, we all knew what was going on. It was bound to catch up with her, and it has, and we have somewhere to go from here." I guess she was trying to be reassuring.  
  
"It's not what you think it is," I insisted.  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"I just do."  
  
She looked touched by my naivete. "Look, I've been through this before with her. We'll get through it." She squeezed my shoulder and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

What was that supposed to mean? Been through what? I found the idea of not knowing the answers to those questions increasingly disturbing. I made my way down the hall into the living room and sat down hard in the center of the couch. What the hell was she talking about? How could I not know? When? Why? And why didn't anyone tell me? And, for that matter, why didn't--

_I've been disgraced  
but I can't bear to face it  
'cause the truth is  
my heart has been abandoned_

Thankfully, the phone shut me up. I found the cordless, after about a thousand rings, disconnected from its base and loose on top of the refrigerator. "Hello?"  
  
"Hey! So she's on her way, right?"  
  
"Um, I'm sorry, what?"  
  
"Carey! Mom is on her way, right?" Of course.   
  
"Fi?"  
  
"Little slow, aren't you?" I could hear that old familiar grin.  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"At the airport," she said slowly. "I guess Mom isn't on her way, then?"  
  
"No, not exactly."  
  
"You had no idea I was coming?"  
  
"Not a clue."  
  
Long pause.  
  
"Well, I'd love to spend the night here, but, you know--"  
  
"Why don't I come and get you instead?"  
  
"Good boy."  
  
The voice in my head wouldn't shut up during the entire drive to the airport. Forgetting to tell anyone about Fiona visiting? That was so unlike her. Or was it? Could I really claim to know just what was like her and what wasn't? Maybe I didn't know half of what I thought I knew about her. Maybe that crazy insomnia story had been a cover, a lie. Maybe she hadn't felt comfortable enough to tell me the truth. Maybe our entire thing existed entirely because she had been constantly under the influence for the last couple of days. How could I know for sure what was really true?   
  
It's pretty sad when you actually start to annoy yourself.   
  
I wandered around in the arrivals area for a while until I spotted Fi. She hadn't changed much, physically. Still short. Long hair. Still my pseudo-kid sister. But she had changed, clearly, in other ways. I walked toward her as she scanned the crowds, then watched her face literally light up when she finally noticed me. "Carey!" she shouted, and ran toward me for a fierce embrace.   
She talked pretty much the entire way home, about Seattle, school, Melinda, the kids, her friends, the band she saw last week, the coffee, the school newspaper. I only tuned in once in a while, catching brief fragments like a radio searching for signals. "it's really cold right she's pretty cool but told her, your writing needs" I felt bad about not being able to concentrate on what she was saying, but I just couldn't pay attention. We were halfway home before I remembered that no one had told her about Molly.   
  
"Sick?" she asked. "Sick how? Like the flu?"  
  
"It's kind of hard to explain," I said, but tried anyway.  
  
She seemed concerned, but not overly so. Hell, maybe she was in on the secret. It made sense--why wouldn't her own daughter know? I tried to think of clever ways to approach the subject, but after a brief discussion of her sympathy for Molly, she returned to her previous topics and I gave up for the rest of the ride. When we got back to the apartment, Fi took her bags to her room while I headed down the hallway to tell Mom or Molly that Fi was home. The door was still closed. I tried to open it, but it was actually locked from the inside this time. I knocked lightly and Mom finally came to the door, looking particularly weary. "Fiona's here," I whispered.  
  
"She is? I didn't know she was coming."  
  
"No one did. So how is she?"  
  
"I'll tell her about Fiona. She's not really ready to talk yet."  
  
Mom began to close the door, but I suspiciously held it open as she continued to lean against it. "Is everything okay?"  
  
"It's fine. Don't worry," she said authoritatively, and I backed off, more as a reflex than anything. The door closed firmly and I heard the click of the lock. 

_I was hopin' for heaven  
but baby I ain't blind  
this ain't the first time  
I been undermined_

Like a spoiled child I stomped back to the living room. I hated being left out and I especially hated that particular bit of information being dangled before me and then snatched away. Extraordinarily frustrated, I flopped back down on the couch in the same position I'd been in before. This time Fiona interrupted my train of thought in the flesh. She sat down on the chair but was silent now.  
  
It was strange. I had known things would be different between us the next time I saw her. They would have to be. I couldn't tell her, but I needed to tell her, I wanted to. Now was clearly not the time. I decided to try again to get information out of her. "So has she ever had symptoms like this before?"  
  
Fi shrugged. "Not that I know of. I mean, it just sounds kind of like a stomach flu, doesn't it?"  
  
I shook my head. "I don't think so. If you'd seen her"  
  
"Speaking of which," she interrupted, "I'd kind of like to. What's going on in there?"  
  
"I don't know. I don't think they want us in there, though." I tried not to let my face betray my mounting irritation.

_sad eyes and crooked smile  
that I remember well  
now it looks like  
all I got is time to kill_

"This whole thing is so strange," she sighed.  
  
"Speaking of which," I teased her, "any aliens in Seattle? Werewolves? Vampires?"  
  
"You know, I really haven't been keeping track. Turns out people will take you much more seriously if you report news they can actually believe. I figure I can gain their trust first, and then" She laughed self-consciously and during the awkward silence that followed, I suddenly realized that while things were different between us, it wasn't for the reason I had thought it would be.   
  
How could I tell her without actually telling her? I was really ready for this day to be over.

_you can't fool me, I see it your eyes  
you can't fool me, I see it in your eyes  
everything I thought we had has all been cast aside  
you can't fool me, I see it in your eyes_

"You look tired," she observed, perhaps picking up on that vibe.  
  
"Yeah," I said. "Kind of a long day."  
  
"Why don't you go on home? Doesn't your mom have her own car?"  
  
No, Fiona, I don't want to go home because I have some very pressing questions about the woman I thought I genuinely loved six hours ago, and now I'm not so sure because it's quite possible that she's been lying to me. "I don't want to leave her here alone," I explained. "My mom. This way if she gets tired, she can go home for a while or go get something to eat and I can take over her shift."  
  
"I'm here now, though," she pointed out.  
  
"I don't mind staying. I don't have anything else to do."  
  
Awkward silence.  
  
"Well, I'm glad you're here," she smiled. "It's nice to know that someone's glad to see me." Was I?  
  
"You don't look any different," I said. I meant it as a compliment, but it seemed to annoy her. Whatever.  
  
"I am different. Older." I didn't respond. "You don't look different either."  
  
"I guess it hasn't really been that long."  
  
"No, I guess not," she said quietly, and I just knew there was a deeper meaning to that, one that I was supposed to figure out. Now I was more tired than ever.  
  
"So what have you been up to?" she asked after a while. "Any girlfriends?"  
  
"No, not really. Just playing with the band, hanging out at the club. She's got a steady gig four nights a week, keeps us all busy enough."  
  
"Is that all you do?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"All you do is work?"  
  
"I don't really think of it as work," I shrugged.  
  
"What about going back to business school?"  
  
"What's the point? I have a job I love."  
  
"Don't you think you're a little old to be living at home and playing in my mom's band?"  
  
"Well, I guess it can't last forever," I felt rather melancholy and decided not to say any more on the subject. She asked a few more leading questions--I think journalism was a bad influence on her already overly-inquisitive nature--before getting the hint and shutting up for a while.  
  
"So I'm alone in this, aren't I?" she said finally.  
  
"Alone in what?" I asked warily.  
  
"This."  
  
"What's oh." I didn't say anything. She took my silence as encouragement, I guess, because she moved over from the chair to the couch, decreasing the distance between us.   
  
"I just thought that when I came back, maybe finally something I don't know. I guess it was stupid."  
  
"Well, it's just that--"  
  
"I know! I'm just a little kid. I'm your little sister, practically. Nothing's changed." A rueful smile. "Maybe next time, huh?"   
  
I couldn't quite think of anything to say to that. I guess I should have put her off somehow, but I wasn't thinking clearly. My thoughts snapped into focus when I felt warm lips on mine. I kind of pushed her away slightly. "Whoa, that isn't that's not Yeah, no."  
  
She looked really hurt and I felt terrible for rejecting her, but what else could I do? The love of my short life might be a liar or insane or worse, but this was just wrong. "It's not you," I said.  
  
"It's me," she chorused. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."  
  
"Whatdo you get?"  
  
"It. I get it. Don't worry. It's fine."  
  
"It is?"  
  
"Yeah. I always kind of had a feeling about you."  
  
"You did?"  
  
"No offense, but do you often see capri pants on straight guys?" She giggled. "It's cool. I'm sorry. I should have been more sensitive."  
  
"I"  
  
"Yeah, well. I'm sorry. I'm just gonna go to bed now. See you in the morning, or whenever."   
  
I didn't bother to set the record straight, as it were. I heard the door to the guest room close and lock and stretched out on the couch in preparation for a long quiet night. Fi was right; I could just go on home now, but despite all my questions and anger, part of me still just couldn't stand the thought of leaving.   
  
So I stayed. And I waited.

_these boots are the same boots I was wearin' then  
but these blues are something new  
they came around when I lost you  
and it looks like I got stuck with an empty hand_...


	9. scratch me out

AN: The song is "Fast As You Can," by Fiona Apple.

_I let the beast in too soon  
I don't know how to live without my hand on his throat  
I fight him always and still  
oh darling, it's so sweet, you think you know how crazy, how crazy I am  
you say you don't spook easy, you won't go  
but I know and I pray that you will_

I wasn't asleep. I had pretended to be in order to ease Irene's mind enough that she would sneak out after a while. She did. It wasn't long after she left that he crept in quietly, though for different reasons, of course. He closed the door gently and whispered my name. I was tempted to remain silent, let him think I was sleeping too, and maybe find some peace and quiet for the first time all day. But the prospect of a long quiet night was more terrifying than appealing, so I answered quietly: "Yeah."  
  
"How are you? Feeling any better?"  
  
There was an odd tone to his voice that I couldn't quite identify. "A little, yeah."  
  
He walked into the room a little more and ended up sitting at the end of the bed, his face turned toward me. It was too dark to read. "Mom went home to get some sleep, and Fi went to bed a while ago."  
  
"Your mother told me she was here. I can't believe I forgot to tell anyone else she was coming. It's just been kind of hazy for me lately. Was she upset?"  
  
He shrugged. "Hard to tell. She was acting kind of strange."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Just in general," he said quickly. "So what were you guys talking about all day?" He was trying hard to sound casual.

_fast as you can, baby   
run, free yourself of me  
fast as you can_

I sighed. "Your mother thought I was drinking again."  
  
"I know," he said, and sounded as if he wanted to say more.  
  
"I told her the truth."  
  
"Did she believe it?" Now the voice was almost bitter, placing the accent on the wrong word.  
  
"I guess so." When I told her, it was dusk and the light coming in through the window was fading fast. She had simply looked at me as I told the story, her face falling into deeper shadows until the light was gone. Then I could see nothing though I strained to see any kind of reaction at all. Silence. I think she did believe that I wasn't doing what she thought I was. I don't think she believed that there was any real threat, but I think she at least believed the dreams and my suspicions about them and my sleep deprivation were all expressions of some deeper psychological problem that she just couldn't help me with. Finally she had said, "I'm so sorry." She had stretched out on the bed and taken my head into her arms, stroking my hair in the dark. Irene had always had the amazing capacity to play many different roles in my life, and sometimes, when I needed it from her, she could be the kind of mother that my own mother could never be.   
  
He shifted gears. "Are you still throwing up?"  
  
"No, not for a while."  
  
"You're sure you're not pregnant?" God, the sound of that word coming from him in this context was so unnatural.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How can you be sure?"  
  
"Because I can't be."  
  
"Oh."

_I may be soft in your palm but I'll soon grow hungry for a fight  
and I will not let you win  
my pretty mouth will frame the phrases that will disprove your faith in man  
so if you catch me trying to find my way into your heart from under your skin  
fast as you can, baby, scratch me out  
free yourself fast as you can_

Finally I decided to give him a little more of myself and explain. "There was another one after Fiona. I didn't have it. Now it's impossible, and I don't believe in miracles, so..."  
  
"You didn't have it? What, like--"  
  
I took a deep breath and interrupted him: "Right after Rick died, I did some things that I shouldn't have. I was horrible, irresponsible. I honestly didn't care what happened to anyone, least of all myself. If there weren't people around me at the time who did care, I don't know what might have happened to the kids. It's the reason why your mother and the others were so quick to assume that. And, as a result of some of the things I did, I lost it. And after I lost it, I found out that it would be impossible to ever have another."  
  
It was easier than I had expected to keep an even tone. I really didn't feel anything at all when I talked about it now. It had been different back then. I think I cried for three weeks straight, day and night.  
  
"I'm sorry," he offered lamely.  
  
I smiled, though the gesture was futile. "I don't know why you would be."  
  
"I just... I had thought... I mean, after--yeah. I don't know. I just am."  
  
"Okay."  
  
It was his turn to stretch out beside me now. He lay there like that for so long that it was easy to forget what I needed to say.  
  
_"_So if that's not what this is, and if it's not what my mom thinks it is, don't you think you should go see a doctor?"_  
  
_"No_. _I know what it is."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Well, part of it was sleeping the other night. Letting my body rest after I had deprived it for so long just threw things off completely. I should have expected that would happen, I guess."  
  
"Jesus," he said. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Hey, I'm a big girl," I teased gently. "I made the choice." I hadn't, really, but it seemed pointless to blame him.  
  
"Yeah, but--"  
  
"Seriously, shut up. It's not your fault. I don't blame you."  
  
Another long silence. "What's the other part?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You said part of it was sleeping. What's the other part?"

_sometimes my mind don't shake and shift  
but most of the time it does  
and I get to the place  
where I'm begging for a lift  
or I'll drown  
in the wonders and the was_

I thought long and hard about what I had planned to tell him. It was the last thing in the world I really wanted to say, but I knew that in the long run it would be better for everyone involved. Not just him, but Irene and Fiona and everyone else around us. So I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "We can't do this anymore. We have to just pretend it didn't happen. We have to think of it as a mistake."  
  
As much as I tried to convince myself that it was a noble thing I was doing, I couldn't stop the voices in my head from screaming about their hatred of me. They whispered nasty truths about my true motivations and I tried desperately to distract them and shut them up. Suddenly the only thing I wanted was to pretend I hadn't said the things I'd said. Maybe if I said something nonchalant now he'd think he just made it up, that he had hallucinated, that I'd only said those words in his own head. But my mouth refused to move and my vocal cords remained stubbornly still.  
  
It was a long time before he said, "Why?"  
  
I had expected the question but never thought of an answer. My voices volunteered suggestions: I don't know why! Never mind! I'm crazy! Ha ha! Just kidding! Because I'm self-destructive and addicted to pain! Because I need to leave you before you can leave me...   
  
"Spending the entire day with your mom just made me feel terrible about what I was doing to her, and in time you'll start to feel terrible about it too."  
  
He didn't respond at all.  
  
"Doesn't it feel a little strange being with someone who's a couple of months older than your mother?" What did I want him to say? No?  
  
"I don't care about that." I could tell his teeth were gritted. "We can't talk about this until you're better," he said decisively. "I refuse to believe that this is you talking. I refuse to believe that you aren't just saying this because of the way you feel physically."

_and I'll be your girl if you say it's a gift  
and you give me some more of your drugs  
yeah, I'll be your pet  
if you just tell me it's a gift  
'cause I'm tired of whys, choking on whys  
just need a little because, because_

"It is me," I said, although it was beginning to feel as if my voice was entirely divorced from my mind.  
  
"I refuse to discuss it."  
  
"You can't do that."  
  
"Yet, look how easily I am."  
  
"I need you to be serious."  
  
"I am being serious."  
  
"Well, so am I."  
  
"Whatever."

_I let the beast in and then I even tried forgiving him  
but it's too soon so I'll fight again, again, again, again, again  
and for a little while more I'll soar the uneven winds  
complain and blame the sterile land  
but if you're getting any bright ideas  
quiet dear, I'm blooming within_

I was just too tired to fight. The voices rejoiced like a demented Greek chorus but putting it off only depressed memore, because it just meant that we'd have to have this entire conversation again later, and it would be harder the second time. I don't know, maybe the sleep had sharpened my mind a little, maybe my sudden need to get out was because of the way this really looked and sounded. The reality was hitting me hard and fast and I couldn't believe I had let this happen.   
  
He could deny the inevitable end as long as he needed to deny it, but what did he really think this was going? Where had I thought this could go? Where were we supposed to end up? If it didn't end here, where would it end? Marriage? Not likely. One morning he would wake up and notice lines on my face he hadn't seen before and then reality would do a number on him, too.  
  
I was doing us both a favor by putting a stop to it, whether he allowed it to stop this second or if it had to wait until tomorrow or next week until he would take me seriously when I said he had to go. It was really for the best. Wasn't it?

He was quiet for what seemed like a long time as my mind raced. Finally he reached for my hand, a familiar gesture from him now. 

I didn't resist.

_fast as you can, baby   
wait, watch me, I'll be out fast as I can  
leave me  
let this thing run its route  
fast as you can  
fast as you can_


	10. blinded

AN: The song is "The Last Word," by Mary Chapin Carpenter. 

_you can have it, I don't want it  
and when you've got it, I'll be gone  
it won't matter what you're saying   
when the damage has all been done_

It was like she thought she was the only one who had ever been left before. When this side of her first took over, I was ready to admit that sometimes it was frustrating and I felt almost ready to pack it in because she just wouldn't stop fighting me. I came to live for the moments when she tired of the struggle and let down her guard. But those moments became more and more brief and I became more and more disillusioned. I began to wonder if I should just give her what she seemed to want so badly. 

_can't seem to keep the faith  
as if that's all I need to do  
I'd rather walk away   
than take what belongs to you_

I just couldn't shake the idea that it wasn't really what she wanted that she was pushing for, just what she thought she should want. I guess it was presumptuous to think I knew her so well that I could tell when she was putting up a front and when she was being herself. I could never tell the difference. Maybe there wasn't ever a difference at all. How the hell could I even be sure that the person I thought I knew so well existed at all? 

_you can have it, I don't want it  
and when you've got it, I'll be gone  
it won't matter what you're saying   
when the damage has all been done_

Maybe I made her up in my mind. Maybe I let my imagination fill in details that the real version of her somehow left out. It became difficult to remember how I ever got started down this road. When she first brought up the idea of ending it and pretending like it never happened, I was surprised, though thinking back on it now, I don't know why I should have been. What else could she do? I guess I should try to remember that in the beginning I didn't know about her obsession with being unhappy. Maybe I did know. Maybe I just thought I could be the one to help her see things differently. Instead I see now that it's her who has changed me.

_some words will cut you down   
like you were only in the way  
why should I stand ths ground?  
it won't hurt as much to say_

I held on at first. That first night I tried to pretend like she hadn't said anything, and it seemed to work, almost like she wanted to pretend too. Maybe she regretted it. If she did, she must have simply abandoned guilt and regret at some point. Pretending was good enough for the two and a half weeks that followed, while she recuperated. When I thought of it after the end I thought that somehow she must have fed off of me to restore her own energy. I guess that when the wound was fresh, it was easier to think of her that way, as a destructive, life-depleting force. If I tried to think of her as the person I had thought I knew and even loved, so many questions were raised in my head that I couldn't sleep at night until I found a way to quiet myself down.

_you can have it, I don't want it  
and when you've got it, I'll be gone  
it won't matter what you're saying   
when the damage has all been done_

What happened? Did she ever care? Why did she stop? If she didn't, how could I not know? How could I not see that she was just pretending? Was she humoring me to avoid a fight? I refused to believe that she never cared. The idea became easier to swallow later but I still tried to avoid it. After the color returned to her face and she was sleeping four or five hours a night, everyone was relieved and assumed that things could return to normal, including me. And they were all right, except for me. 

_sometimes we're blinded by   
the very thing we need to see  
I finally realized   
that you need it more than you need me_

She stopped having the dreams; she became well enough to play again. The first night she came back to the club, I sat in the passenger seat of her car outside long after the others had gone away. 

"Look," she said, "I was serious that night. I'm sorry."

It took me a minute to register what she was saying. "Don't you think we could work through all that?" It was lame, but I couldn't think of another response. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Okay, never mind, we'll just take it all back! She drove her upper teeth into her bottom lip and shook her head with her eyes closed. It almost seemed as if she was pleading with the gods to grant me maturity. 

I guess her plea went unanswered, because she opened her eyes and said: "It just won't work. Think about it, Carey. I mean really think about it. Where does it end if not here? Do we get married? Do I make your mother my maid of honor? Do we drive off into the sunset and leave everyone we know behind? I'm sorry, I just can't handle that. And if it doesn't end happily, then who's to say we won't just be having this same conversation a week from now, two weeks, five months, six years? We can never stay together," she emphasized. I stayed silent. 

_you can have it, I don't want it  
and when you've got it, I'll be gone  
it won't matter what you're saying   
when the damage has all been done_

She kept going and I started to get the feeling that she just kept talking because I couldn't. "And eventually you won't want to. Eventually you'll look at me and say to yourself, what the hell was I thinking? Or you'll say, well, I got that out of my system, and by then you'll have succeeded in dragging me into this so far that I'll be left here, devastated and alone. Again. I'm sorry. I just can't do it. I can't." 

I still didn't have the slightest idea what to say. Should I defend myself? She was right. I couldn't visualize the end of this. 

"It's better this way. I promise. Hey, we had some fun, right?" She smiled at me, her face betraying regret she was fighting hard to keep out of her voice, but I didn't register a reaction at all. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. This was my own nightmare. This wasn't real. Unfortunately, I just couldn't make myself believe that. So I said, "Okay." 

She looked so disappointed that I realized she was actually expecting me to fight. And I wanted to. I wanted to tell her that I didn't care about what my family would say, that I didn't care about what her family would say, that I didn't care about where we'd live or what we called ourselves. I wanted to tell her that none of it mattered, because I loved her. But I just said, "Okay." And I got out of the car.

She had won the war.

_the damage has all been done_


	11. so be it

AN: This is from Fi's POV and the song is "I Know," by Fiona Apple. 

_so be it  
I'm your crowbar  
if that's what I am so far  
until you get out of this mess_

I can't believe they honestly thought I wouldn't figure it out. I was suspicious back in Seattle when Mom started sounding a little preoccupied all the time on the phone. Then I knew something was definitely up when she forgot to tell people I was coming home--she had to be distracted or preoccupied, because in the past when I'd made visits home she had done virtually everything but lobby the mayor to declare it Fiona Phillips Day in Hope Springs. And when I got here that night and she was sick and he just kept hanging around like he was waiting for something to happen... well, it wouldn't take a genius or even Annie to put the pieces together to form a picture. 

In an effort to prove myself wrong (God, I so wanted to be wrong), I threw myself at him to see what would happen. Unfortunately, events unfolded more or less as I had predicted they would. I pretended to have no idea of the true reason, made a crack about his fashion choices, and generally stayed away from both of them as much as I could until four days later when it was time to return to Seattle.

_and I will pretend that I don't know of your sins  
until you are ready to confess  
but all the time, all the time  
I'll know, I'll know_

The whole time I was home, I couldn't figure out what to do with my seemingly confirmed new knowledge. Should I call Jack and tell him, have him drive back here in the middle of the night at 110mph like I knew he would if I did? Should I call up Ned and Irene? It was such a strange idea to get my head around. How was I supposed to simply accept that the boy I grew up having a massive crush on was now going out or doing other things I didn't want to imagine with my own mother? The idea grossed me out so thoroughly that I decided to keep it to myself for now and hope that the next time I came home, things would be somehow different. 

I guess I got my wish. My first visit had been for spring break. My next visit was for the first two months of summer. The day I returned, she certainly looked better than she had the last time I'd seen her--she had barely been able to get herself out of bed the day I left, but now she seemed to be back in color. She came to the airport herself this time, surprisingly punctual and cheerful to a fault. I talked at length about my own life while I tried to think of some way to find out if it was still going on between them. 

_and you can use my skin  
to bury secrets in  
and I will settle you down_

My answer came not long after we made it back to her new place, because there was Jack, smiling like a boy who didn't have the first idea about his mother's apparently twisted personal life. So it looked like we'd be together like this for the entire summer, the three of us, the way it had always been. But it would be different this time--it would have to be, with what I knew and what she wouldn't say and what he would never know.

Of course Jack couldn't go five seconds without calling up Clu, who was also home, who had to come over and see him, and of course his brother had to tag along--probably so no one would suspect that anything was different, I supposed. I watched the two of them closely but subtly for any signs that I might be right or that I might be wrong. But to the average person my mother and her suspected paramour would seem perfectly innocent. 

_and at my own suggestion, I will ask no questions  
while I do my thing in the background  
but all the time, all the time  
I'll know, I'll know_

I cornered Carey later that night. He was stretched out on the guest bed reading some guitar magazine, ignoring Jack and Clu, who were playing video games and comparing notes about college girls. 

I made up an excuse to get him alone and practically dragged him into the living room. "Hey, Fi," he said neutrally.

"Hey. What's up?"

He played along. "Nothing. What's up with you?" 

I couldn't really think of a way to say what I wanted to say without actually saying it. It would be a gamble to spill what I knew all at once. The only real signs this time around were the deeper lines in her face and the way she seemed to avoid us more in favor of being alone, and he seemed... I don't know, empty? He spoke and acted without conviction. But all of this really could just be in my head, I realized. Still, I had to know. I took a deep breath. "All right, look. I know about you--"

"Not that again," he groaned. 

"I know about you and her."

He didn't say anything. I hoped to God or whoever was in charge of such things that he would just laugh when he realized what I meant, if he even did realize what I was implying. But I had apparently been abandoned, because he asked, "How?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not stupid."

"Well, of course you aren't, I mean--I mean, I just thought we--well, it doesn't matter anymore anyway."

"It doesn't?" My heart fairly leaped.

"It's over," he said, and then recited in a monotone: "It was a mistake. As far as we're concerned it didn't happen. Please don't tell anyone."

_baby, I can't help you out, while she's still around  
so for the time being, I'm being patient  
and amidst this bitterness, if you'll just consider this  
even if it don't make sense all the time, give it time_

"I won't," I promised. The sooner I could stop thinking about this situation altogether, the happier I'd be. But he suddenly looked so sad it was almost heartbreaking, and I wanted to reach out to him but after last time I really wasn't sure I should. 

"Hey," I said tentatively. "Are you... you know, are you okay?"

"Oh yeah, I'm just peachy."

"Whoa, relax. I'm sorry, I just didn't know what else to--"

"No." His tone shifted and became much softer and more confidential. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's been... it's been hard, that's all."

"Yeah." I tried to pretend to be sympathetic. If it was any other girl... In fact, it had been other girls in the past. I was an old pro at this conversation. But it was more than a little weird to be consoling him after he'd broken up with my own mother. I made an effort not to think about that part. "I know." I laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. He stared at it.

"We've been here before, remember?" My own tone became measurably softer. "But you always get through it, and there's always another one."

"Not this time," he said. "I really feel like I've lost something, you know? It wasn't like that with the others."

"It's better this way," I offered, holding back the rest of that thought: It's better this way, because that other way, it was more than a little distasteful to think about considering that she's at least 20 years older than you and also she's my mother and I've known you since the day I was born and she's known you since the day you were born and don't you see something wrong with that?

"I don't see how," he sighed. "But that's what I hear."

_and when the crowd becomes your burden, and you've early closed your curtains  
I'll wait by the backstage door  
while you try to find the lines to speak your mind  
and pry it open, hoping for an encore_

Look at me, I wanted to demand. I've been right here for you for as long as you've needed a girl to talk to. I'm the one who's spent night after night assuring you that it's them, it's not you, and I'm the one who really loves you. I don't know what she did for you but it couldn't have been this. Let's pretend it didn't happen. Let's pretend I never knew. Let's just pretend, okay?

It was almost as if he'd heard me, or maybe I said those words aloud, I couldn't remember now, not with his eyes boring into mine. It was if he was saying: remember last time? Maybe this time things could be different. At least that's what I thought he was trying to tell me. So I leaned in again, putting myself on the line again, making the first move again. I guess it followed that I should be rejected again. He pulled back after a few sweet seconds and said: "I can't. I can't do this to her."

Of course you can't. Of course you can't appreciate what I'm doing here by not shouting what I know from the rooftops, killing you both without firing a shot. Of course you can't appreciate that I'm forgiving you instead. But I think you will one day, and that's why I'll stay and I'll be strong enough to endure the daily rejection until the day you turn to me and suddenly realize who I've become and that I'm here, waiting for you to see me. So I'll apologize a second time, and I'll pretend it didn't mean anything to me, and I'll stay by your side until you're ready. Isn't that love?

_and if it gets too late for me to wait  
for you to find you love me and tell me so  
it's okay  
don't need to say it..._


	12. strangling

AN: The song is "The Queen and the Soldier," by Suzanne Vega. I should probably stop posting chapters I've written at 2am; the last one featured 18 uses of the word "just." (I edited it, though, so it's better now.)

_the soldier came knocking upon the queen's door  
he said, "I am not fighting for you anymore"  
the queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before, and slowly she let him inside.  
he said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill  
and I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill  
but I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will;  
only first I am asking you why."_

I love you and I'm sorry. Six short simple words that I might say to the cat if I stepped on its tail but I just couldn't force my mouth to form them now, so instead I remained silent. For weeks. Around him, at least. I mean, we'd talk as much as we had to around the others and at the shows, but that was all. To be honest, I really thought I was handling the whole thing pretty well until Fiona came back at the beginning of the summer. From almost the second I laid eyes on her she was asking all sorts of uncomfortable questions, and I supposed it was nice that high school hadn't squashed her inquisitive nature yet. But it made me wonder just what she knew and how she knew it, because obviously she was trying and mostly failing to hide something. I'd look at her and she'd smile innocently and I'd think, hey, maybe I'm just paranoid, how silly, how would she know? 

_down in the long narrow hall he was led, into her rooms with her tapestries red  
and she never once took the crown from her head  
she asked him there to sit down.  
he said, "I see you now, and you are so very young  
but I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won,  
and I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun,  
and now will you tell me why?"_

But then she'd ask another leading question and I'd know and she'd know but I'd answer nonchalantly, as false as her innocent smile. By the time we made it home I was ready to be anywhere not near her. I tried to stay strong for a few days after her return and pretended that nothing was wrong. He came over once or twice; we were civil enough not to arouse suspicion, but colder than we'd ever been before. 

I guess it was the end of the first week that I finally cracked. I don't know why--maybe I'd just had enough of pretending by then. We finished a quiet dinner and I was carrying dishes to the sink when I caught her staring at me. Normally I wouldn't have been so paranoid, but I knew her so well, or at least I thought I did, that I could almost hear her thoughts and I could almost feel the resentment and anger she was directing at me with a simple steady gaze. I made an excuse and retreated to my room, locking the door. 

_the young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye  
she said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"  
but her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry   
but she closed herself up like a fan.  
and she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread  
it cuts me inside, and often I've bled"  
he laid his hand then on top of her head, and he bowed her down to the ground._

I knew I loved Fiona, of course I did, I was still a mother and when she and Jack needed it from me, I had been a particularly protective and nurturing mother as often as I could be. But Jack and I always had a bond that Fiona and I just didn't have. It was as if Jack was a (very repressed) reflection of me and Fi was a reflection of Rick. As she delved further into the paranormal, picking up right where he left off, looking at her only reminded me of him. And looking at her and thinking of him only made me feel guilty for driving him away. Even before she left, I started reading deeper meanings into every teenage mood swing she had; every glare was an accusation, every sigh a bitter argument unspoken. I tried not to let it show, but when she offered to stay with Melinda for the school year, I was relieved that finally the pressure might be off.

I had barely seen her during the spring break visit, being mostly laid up in bed recovering for most of it. So having her around and acting suspiciously just brought all that old resentment rushing right back, as much as I wished it would go away. I mean, taking my personal problems out on her, just because she had the misfortune of reminding me of unpleasant facts about my life--namely, that I was older than I wanted to be right now, and apparently lacking the moral compass that seemed to keep other people from doing terrible things like meeting clandestinely with boys barely older than their own children. I stretched out on the bed and listened to the muted noises coming from the guest room, allowing the modulated voices to lull me into a state of half-sleep and half-waking. 

_"tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel.  
as you are living here alone, and you are never revealed,  
but I won't march again on your battlefield," and he took her to the window to see.  
and the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray  
and she wanted more than she ever could say  
but she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away  
and would not look at his face again._

Hours later, it seemed, I came out of my semi-trance and pulled myself up from the bed. The place seemed to be quiet. I crept into the hallway and looked into the guest room. Jack was asleep, but Clu was awake, frantically pushing buttons on the game controller. I smiled at the sight and stage-whispered loud enough for him to hear, "You should really go to bed."

If it had been a cartoon, I think his body would have actually risen up off the floor entirely. "Geez, you scared me."

"I'm serious, though. It's late, isn't it?"

He smiled sheepishly. "Not that late. The sun's not up."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I will," he promised. "I just need to finish this game."

Some things remained so constant it was a comfort. I just laughed and closed the door. I sincerely hoped that Fi wasn't awake--I really wasn't in the mood to be interrogated again--but figured I should probably check on her just to be safe. Since Jack had arrived home first, he'd claimed the guest room for his own, which left Fi in the living room sleeping on the couch, at least for this week. They would work out some arrangement, probably, by which they could switch off on alternate days or weeks, whatever. I tried to walk quietly across the carpet to make sure she was both on the couch and still breathing, my motherly duties. 

She was still breathing. And she was also on the couch, her head resting on the chest of a companion who was quite familiar to me. A tape was sticking out of the VCR and the TV screen illuminated the space with bright blue light; presumably they'd fallen asleep watching a movie. I didn't bother to turn off the television, instead tiptoeing at top speed back to my room. I closed and locked the door.

_and he said, "I want to live as an honest man,   
to get all I deserve and to give all I can  
and to love a young woman who I don't understand  
your highness, your ways are very strange."  
but the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break  
and she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached  
she took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait;   
she would only be a moment inside._

I sank to the floor with my back against the door. I hoped I could find a way to clear my head out before the tirade began, but I couldn't make myself move, so I was powerless to fight her when she started in.

So, you got what you wanted. You wanted to make it all go away and now it looks like it finally has. Sure, it could mean nothing... but don't act like you didn't know about that silly little crush she's had since she was old enough to have crushes on people other than Ernie and Bert. Why should you care what it meant, anyway? You got what you wanted from him, didn't you? And you were successful in alerting him to your true nature--you know: cold, callous, uncaring, unworthy--before he had the chance to discover his own and leave. He would have done it anyway. It's better that you told him to go, isn't it? Now you get to feel that old comforting combination of fear and anger and sorrow and regret and self-pity and self-hatred all over again. At least this time you can pretend you had some control over the situation. 

Oh, come on, Molly. Why should you be upset? He's with the girl he should be with now. And so are you.

_out in the distance  
her order was heard  
and the soldier was killed  
still waiting for her word  
and while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred  
the battle continued on._


	13. doing time

AN: The song is "She Will Have Her Way," by Neil Finn, but I might change it at some point.

_I might be old but I'm someone new, she said  
I'm so sore that I could cry always  
in the night lay your tired arms_

I wanted to believe that one day things might go back to the way they were between us. But keeping that hope alive really wasn't easy with the way our distance seemed to increase every time I saw her. Finally I stopped seeing her entirely except for at the shows, though it wasn't my intention or desire. Fi invited me over pretty constantly and I'd go for lack of anything better to do, and just maybe with the vague hope of seeing her, like maybe today might be The Day, whatever I wanted that to mean at the time. 

But she made herself scarcer and scarcer, to the point where I genuinely began to worry again. I wanted to reach out, but I knew it would be foolish now since Fi knew and also seemed to be growing more attached to me by the day. I figured it was likely that she wouldn't have even wanted my sympathy anymore anyway. So I let it happen and I didn't fight what Molly seemed to believe was inevitable as we became strangers in a way we'd never been before. And maybe I took comfort in Fiona's attentions, I don't know. I certainly didn't want to admit that at the time, and I still don't, because to do that would be to admit that I took advantage of her affection just to feed the self-esteem that had been so severely battered by the one I still loved.

_and she will have her way  
somehow I will still believe her_

It was the last night of June when my mother came in with not one or two but three bulletins full of joyful and cheery news. First, the Thelens were coming back to town. Second, since the Phillips clan seemed so cramped in Molly's new apartment, my parents had offered to house the visiting family for a weekend. Third, since Lisa Thelen was Molly's friend anyway, guess who was invited to a dinner celebrating her return to the U.S.? I tried not to let my expression betray my mounting dread as Mom fired these reports at me. 

On the first day of July, the Thelens arrived in the morning, right on time. Annie hadn't changed at all, except she seemed to talk to herself a little less, which I supposed was a positive development, except that it meant she was more interested in having actual conversations with real people, myself included. I spent the day trying to come up with excuses to miss the "party," but each one sounded more ridiculous than the last. After dinner I hastily retreated to the kitchen, eager for a break from both the visiting family's oh-so-fascinating accounts of their latest travels and the uncomfortable tension between me, Molly, and Fi. Fi had been blatantly suspicious, taking note of every glance I might happen to dart in Molly's direction. Molly seemed resentful, which I couldn't quite figure out. She artfully avoided my glances, though she was atypically cheerful and conversational around the Thelens. 

_she's the life I've been frightened of, seems like  
deathly silence and especially the dark, feels like  
I am heavy and my spirit has died_

I sat at the kitchen table trying to ignore the rising and falling voices from the dining room. It mostly worked until I heard one distinctive voice becoming louder and louder until finally she arrived in the doorway, looking behind her and laughing--I couldn't tell if it was genuine or forced. She was carrying a glass empty but for an inch or two of liquid sloshing around at the bottom. The cup went under the ice-maker in the freezer door, but she couldn't make it work. Frustrated, she banged her fist against the door a couple of times, swearing under her breath. I simply observed until finally getting up and taking the cup out of her hand. 

She swore louder this time. "You scared me! Were you there the whole time?" She slid the kitchen door closed, in order to keep anyone from wandering by and seeing us together, I supposed.

"Yeah." I filled the cup halfway with ice cubes and handed it to her. She took it but I didn't let go.

"What are you doing in here?" Her voice became hushed, conspiratorial.

"You can only hear about South America so many times before it starts to get really boring."

"Yeah," she agreed.

Awkward pause. 

_and she will have her way  
somehow I will still believe her  
she will have her way  
one day I will come back_

"So how have you been?"

"You just saw me two nights ago," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but we haven't really talked since... you know, a while."

"I'm fine."

"No more dreams?"

"None at all."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

Awkward pause, part 2. 

"I'll let you get back." I released the cup.

"Well, wait," she said, setting it down on the nearest counter. 

"Yeah?"

She folded her arms across her chest and it really looked like she wanted to ask me something, but couldn't quite get it out. 

I couldn't take the tension anymore.

_still no end in sight  
though I've traveled far and wide  
and a dying man is doing time  
thinker, soldier terrified_

At first she didn't fight back--she welcomed it. But of course that couldn't last, not here, not now, not with everyone we needed to keep it a secret from sitting in the next room. She pulled back and said: "We can't--this is--I still--_you_ can't--not with... Fiona. Jesus. Fiona." 

I noted with amusement the way she had become so flustered that apparently forming complete sentences was a challenge. "What about her?"

"Don't make me say it," she said, actually physically pushing me away from her. "Let's just... let's just pretend--"

"Yeah, that's not going to happen, the pretending thing. I'm tired of that. I can't do it."

"But you're--and she--"

"Nothing's going on. Is that what you think? God, what kind of person do you think I am? Do you think I could do that to you? Or to her?"

"But I _saw_ you."

"We're friends. It's all we've ever been. It's all we are. It's all we ever could be. Trust me." I wasn't sure whether I meant it as a request or a demand.

_she will have her way  
somehow I will still believe her  
she will have her way  
one day I will come back_

This time it was her who closed the gap between us. I tried to burn images and sensations into my memory; it was impossible to tell whether this would be a new beginning or the last time we'd ever be alone like this. She withdrew a second time and bit her lip like she was punishing it for acting independently of her brain. "I can't," she said finally. "I still can't."

"Whatever it is, don't you think we could--"

"No. We couldn't. It's not about you. It's about me, but it's also about everything--everyone. Even if you think there's nothing going on between you, she loves you. Believe me, I know what that looks like."

"But I don't--"

"It doesn't matter. Even if it's not about her, it's about everyone else."

"I don't care about everyone else."

"I know. But I do."

"They're not here. They don't get to decide what happens."

"It's more complicated than that."

"It doesn't have to be."

"It does."

"No, it really doesn't."

I took what might be the last chance I'd ever get, pressing my lips against hers one last best time. It was encouraging that she didn't immediately resist--it felt like maybe I was finally wearing away some of her defenses. I moved my attentions lower, toward her neck and shoulders, but it didn't last long before she interrupted again: "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"Carey, stop." I obeyed. "Seriously, I can't. Right now... It's too much. I need to get out of here. Apologize to Irene and Lisa for me, would you?"

She didn't give me a chance to respond. She was out of my sight before I'd gotten around to asking questions like "What the hell am I supposed to tell them?"

_when the time has gone away  
she will have her way  
but not before time  
she will have her way_

No one seemed to be suspicious or even notice when I slid the door open and emerged from the kitchen alone. No one, that is, except Fi, who regarded me with enough loaded wariness to make a weaker man's heart stop. I leaned over and whispered the news of Molly's untimely departure to my mother, who seemed neither surprised nor distressed. She encouraged me quietly to sit at the table, but Lisa was in the middle of an undoubtedly exciting tale of life in the jungle, so I opted to return to my room instead. 

I guess it was irresponsible of me to let Fiona think I could feel about her the way she so obviously felt about me. It was weakness; I needed to believe that someone could actually love me--I needed to believe that what happened wasn't my fault, that it was all about Molly's psychological battles and guilt issues and paranoia. I needed the reassurance that Fi's constant adoration provided. 

Fine, I'll say it the way it should be said: I used her. I hated to think of myself as the kind of person who could do that to someone who really cared, and more than that, someone who cared unconditionally, despite what she knew about my moral shortcomings. That just wasn't what I wanted, and I was really getting tired of having to deny and hide and pretend. 

I'll admit that maybe that night I wasn't as concerned as I should have been about the way my behavior would affect her. I knew what she still wanted. I knew that she thought I could provide it for her, despite the many times I'd assured her nothing could ever happen between us. Still, I shouldn't have been so completely focused on what I wanted or what I was feeling. I should have tried to care more. I should have been more sensitive. I should have known what would happen next.


	14. isn't this fun

AN: The song is "Bossa Nova," by Shivaree.

_well, I think I hate you, isn't this fun  
you're gonna shoot and I, darling, loaded the gun  
I think I'm done_

"You're kidding," Judy said incredulously and for a minute I wished I hadn't come. I considered bolting for the door for the second time this evening. 

To be honest, I wasn't exactly certain how I had ended up there asking for advice from someone it turned out I barely knew. I had gotten the idea to see her, when, in the throes of introspection, it occurred to me that I should talk to someone. Clearly, I couldn't talk to anyone whose life would possibly be affected by the decision I needed to make now for the second time. So I had thought of her and then been possessed by the selfish urge to unburden myself. I began to drive, then panicked as I realized I didn't have the first idea where she lived. In fact, I only had a vague recollection of her last name. This revelation only confirmed my current belief that I was simply terrible at living. Loving, being loved, having friends, being a friend, not betraying people who loved you--it was apparently far too complicated for my small mind to handle, and it always had been. 

For a brief melodramatic second I resisted the impulse to drive not to the house of a relatively objective semi-outsider but into a tree or off a bridge instead, as Rick had suggested. It was tempting, but I decided just to find a phone book instead.

_what train did you step off of anyway?  
I really don't care, I'm the luckiest girl  
gonna lie with you baby, 'cause there's nowhere else I can lay_

It hadn't been Judy who answered the door. It was another woman who seemed to resemble her. A sister, perhaps. Maybe the assumption I'd made about the Denise Carey mentioned that night was way off and she was simply a relative. It would be so like me to be completely wrong, wouldn't it? The woman who wasn't Judy but might be Denise, not that I was qualified to figure that out, surveyed me, trying to identify who I might be and why I was standing there looking, I was certain, slightly crazed. It was almost as if she was speaking aloud: too old to be a Girl Scout, too late to be a Jehovah's Witness, too wild-eyed to be a long-lost relative like her mother's secret love child or something. Finally I stopped waiting for her to recognize me and said, "I'm Molly Phillips. I was looking for Judy, but if she's not--"   
  
"Of course you are!" There was an unmistakable tone of relief in her voice. "I knew that!"  
  
I smiled politely.  
  
"I just don't think I've ever seen you offstage," she explained.   
  
Yes, that's right. I'm a terrible person, completely self-absorbed, a true friend to no one. I know. I get it. Hell, it's why I'm here. "So is Judy?" I asked far more patiently than I felt.  
  
"Oh, yeah, of course," she said, opening the door a little wider and stepping aside. I guessed that meant I should come in, so I did, tentatively. "I don't think we've actually ever met," she admitted, holding out a hand. "I'm Denise. Judy's in the kitchen." How appropriate. She led me further into the tiny house. Booming music grew louder as we passed through rooms until finally we reached a sitting room of some kind with a record player and a large set of speakers blaring heavy metal. I vaguely remembered it from my wilder days. I almost laughed as the association clicked in my mind: the band was called "Rainbow," a contemporary of Black Sabbath and Alice Cooper, with one of those guys from Deep Purple. Maybe I had been right about Judy after all. I wondered if they saw the humor in that. She looked back and I saw a look of apology flicker across her face. She dashed to the stereo and turned it down. "Sorry," she said.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"It was a little loud," she explained like she was talking to a three-year-old.  
  
"Yeah," I laughed.  
  
"Well, it's just that--I mean, your music, what I've heard, is a little softer, you know? I just thought--"  
  
God, she was probably no more than 10 years old when that album came out. I sighed--so far this visit wasn't going very well, considering that I'd been reminded of my failings as a human being and my advanced age within the first three minutes. I smiled nicely and assured her, "Yeah. It's okay. I actually remember that band."   
  
She looked relieved and turned it back up just a little. "Uh, it's right through here."

_I'm never talking to you again  
I'll go join the Marines  
and then I will peacefully sail away with some safe magazines_

And that's how I ended up sitting at the kitchen table opposite a background musician who would have taken any other gig if she had been able to get it, but she'd ended up in my band and as a result here I was interrupting her evening with my tawdry tales of clandestine meetings with her bandmate, who was younger than she, and in many ways a mere child. Denise had made herself scarce, but I had a feeling she was eavesdropping from the other room, reading a magazine and listening to a record half as old as me.  
  
"No, I'm not kidding," I said seriously. "I know, it's terrible, I'm a horrible person for letting this happen, I just needed someone else to say that, so, thank you." I started to get up. She touched my arm and I sat back down.   
  
"That's not what I meant. It's just that"  
  
"The age difference. I know. And it's--"  
  
"Molly, seriously, shut up now," she interrupted good-naturedly. "You came here to talk, right? So I assume you also came here to listen. Now's the time to do that."  
  
I nodded contritely.  
  
"I guess what I meant was--well, never mind what I meant. The point is, do you love him?"

I was taken aback by her directness and fumbled for an answer. Apparently that was enough of one to satisfy her. I watched, perplexed, as a smile stretched slowly across her face. "That's great," she said. "I know he well, yeah, it's just great, that's all. Sincerely."

_did you hear what I say?  
you can't fall down the stairs two times the same way  
and I really don't care, I'm the luckiest girl  
gonna tell you I love you more than anything else I can see_

"But no, no, no it isn't great," I insisted. "It can't be great. It can't happen. Not with everyone. I mean, what about Fi and Irene and Jack, oh God, he would die if he ever found out, or worse--"  
  
"In the end, they might as well not exist." She shrugged. "It comes down to what's between you and him, and if you love him, and we know he loves you, then the only consideration is whether he's actually bad for you. Do you think that's the case?"  
  
She knew the answer as well as I did.

"Right. The others well, they'll either fall into place or they won't. I have a bit of experience with that sort of thing." She smiled slyly. "Either they'll be a lot more accepting than you think they will, or it'll be every bit as awful as you're imagining or it might actually be even worse. The point is that you need to find out what it's gonna be and live through it."

_if people were cars, I'd be covered with scars  
I'll hold on to my dignity  
I bought this old dress to cover the mess  
don't take it off, I don't want you, I don't want you to see_

"What did you do?" I asked carefully.  
  
"Oh, me? My mom was fine with it, she was a hippie. Free love, all that. But Denise, she had a pretty rough time." The music got a little louder. Judy lowered her voice. "Her parents took it really badly. They threatened her with all sorts of things. Eventually they told her they were disowning her. Her entire family stopped speaking to her. And for what? Over something so stupid and personal that it seems really ridiculous."  
  
"What happened?" I didn't want to find out.  
  
"They still don't speak. But I think she'd tell you that it's worth it, or at least I hope she would." She smiled again and imparted her last bit of wisdom: "Life comes in stages. Accept it. When one stage is over, another will begin. You just have to let the change happen. If you hold onto one thing for too long, if you can't deal with change, you grow stagnant. You die. Not literally, of course." A lot she knew. "So even if you might be scared of letting go right now, if it's time, then it's just time, you can't change that."   
  
I nodded, although it was becoming far too new-agey for my taste. What she said made sense, even if I didn't really want to understand the implications. The prospect of giving up everyone for one person just didn't seem practical or desirable, considering my history. I didn't think I could handle being deserted by everyone I loved. Better to sacrifice one for the good of them all. I kept that to myself, though, and smiled at Judy as I rose again. "Well, thank you. I needed to hear that. I appreciate you listening to me, helping me out, I know I haven't been--"  
  
She cut me off and stood up too. "Well, maybe that stage is over now, too. Maybe a new one is beginning right now." She stepped forward and hugged me and then stepped away again. "Good luck. You deserve this. So does he. I think it's great that this is happening." Off my look, she expanded on that: "It might not look like it now. But I promise you, it will be."   
  
"Yeah," I said quickly. "I should probably, you know, head on home now, I've been gone for a long time."   
  
She walked me to the door. As we passed, Denise looked up from her magazine and smiled as Rainbow blared from the speakers. How could she do it? How could she be satisfied with this after losing all that she had? I didn't believe in the power of love to heal wounds and I still don't. I guessed she must buy into the whole stages idea too. If only I could have faith in that concept. 

_stop singing that song, I'll stand hard like a tree  
yeah, you make me sick, you red razor nick  
get your hot hands off me_

As I drove slowly toward home I thought about what she had said. Maybe something did guide me to her house. Maybe someone was trying to talk sense into my increasingly irrational head. Maybe it was a crazy idea, but maybe those dreams had meant something. Maybe they weren't death threats or morbid invitations from beyond the grave, as I'd assumed, but symbolic--maybe somewhere deep inside my mind there was a sensible voice trying to show me that I was the one who was killing myself on a daily basis, by going through life as a shell, plagued by guilt, fear, directionless anger, self-loathing, and all the recurring feelings brought on by that one night a thousand years ago now. 

_maybe you're from the moon  
sensibility tells me that this is too soon  
oh, my bones are bare_

Maybe it all meant nothing except that I was destined to be perpetually alone and would therefore viciously sabotage all prospects for happiness that arose. 

Or, maybe I should just give in. Maybe I should, as Judy had suggested, stop fighting the idea that change was coming. Maybe I should accept that even if everyone I knew and loved closed their doors to me, there would still be one person faithfully standing by his open door, waiting for me to come around. I briefly considered changing my path and driving directly back to the Bell house, but obviously "giving in" wasn't going to be as easy as confronting the people I hated to lose and saying, "I accept that you might hate me for the rest of my life, but..." 

Ending the current stage would not be easy or clean. As frightening as that prospect was, I decided that maybe I was actually ready for it. So many years of being responsible now. So many years of doing what I needed to do, what was expected of me. So much time spent on one stage. Letting go didn't seem so catastrophic when I thought of it in those terms.

_I'm the luckiest girl  
yeah, and I want you, baby  
more than anything else, more than anything else in the room  
more than anything else in the room_

So when I walked into the dark apartment, I was feeling pretty good about things--better than I had in a while, really. Maybe it was just a brief delusion of happiness, I don't know. Whatever it was, it came to a crashing halt when I turned on the light. There sat Jack, staring directly into my eyes with enough hatred and anger and betrayal to pierce the skin. No, none of what I thought I had discovered or realized tonight mattered now. It was all over. 

I had no choice.


	15. into the void

AN: I don't own the characters or the song "Shotgun Down the Avalanche" by Shawn Colvin. I'm not too thrilled with this chapter, because I don't think I write from Jack's POV very well. 

_I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche   
tumbling and falling down the avalanche  
so be quiet tonight, the stars shine bright  
on this mountain of new fallen snow  
but I will raise up my voice into the void  
you have left me nowhere to go_

I must have sat there for an hour, maybe two. Waiting. Thinking. Trying not to think. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill her. I couldn't figure out which one of them I wanted to hurt more, but it didn't matter, because of course I wouldn't do it. That's not the kind of person I am, unless I'm provoked or threatened in some major way. Then again, don't you think this would qualify as being provoked?  
  
I guess they did a good job of hiding it. I hadn't even noticed anything out of the ordinary until, at dinner, Fi suddenly turned pale and withdrawn, both of which were very unusual for her. She stopped participating in the conversation, which admittedly wasn't that interesting, I mean, the Thelens aren't exactly fascinating, but I'm her brother and I can tell when something's up.  
  
I volunteered the two of us to clear plates. She helped me mechanically, gathering dishes without complaint. When we got to the kitchen I abruptly set down the plates I had been carrying. "All right, what's up?"  
  
And surprisingly enough she actually told me. Everything.  
  
When she finished, neither of us were quite sure what to do, or what she had witnessed earlier might have meant. Should we barge in on Carey, demand an explanation? Should we report Fi's story to Ned and Irene, who would probably have some things to say about all of this? More importantly, how were we ever going to deal with this? Already I was having trouble thinking of her as Mom. This was a betrayal. I wasn't sure either of us would ever recover enough for things to go back to normal.  
  
Fi decided to stay with Annie for the night and maybe come home in the morning. And then I came here to sit and wait. I tried not to think of it as "lying in wait." I didn't have some evil plan. I just wanted to confront her. I wanted to find out why. Wasn't it bad enough that she should go out and sleep with some random guy who wasn't our father? Did it have to be him? It was sick. I couldn't figure out which one of them I blamed more.  
  
Sitting, not lying, in wait gave me more time than I had intended to really think about the implications. The more I thought about it and the more unsuccessful I was in my attempts not to think about it, the more difficult it was to separate shock from anger, until they fused into some kind of gigantic ball of resentment that was just waiting for the right time to explode. I started thinking about ways I could handle this that didn't involve talking. On some level I knew that it wasn't all about me, that I shouldn't take it so personally, but come on. Think about it. Your mother-that term was really getting harder to use-is sleeping, as in spending the night, as in having sex, with someone up until now you thought was one of your closest friends. Thinking about it was enough to turn my stomach. I didn't know how Fi could have kept it a secret for so long. It must have been so hard for her. I wished she had told me sooner; maybe I could have helped her or been there for her. Already I was staring at the phone, thinking of people I could call, ways to ruin their lives.   
  
By the time she finally got home, I had mostly succeeded in clearing my head, calming down. At least, until I saw her. Then it all came rushing right back, maybe even stronger than before. When she saw me she just stopped. She stood there in the doorway with the front door standing open, a silhouette. I couldn't make out her face, and I was glad. It would only make this easier.

_I love you so much and it's so bizarre, a mystery that goes on and on and on   
this is the best thing and the very most hard, and we don't get along  
after countless appeals we keep spinning our wheels   
on this mountain of new fallen snow  
so I let go the catch and we are over the edge  
you have left me nowhere to go_

She didn't say anything. I decided to get the ball rolling.  
  
"She told me the whole story."  
  
"She doesn't know the whole story." On the defensive this early in the argument? She closed and locked the door, stepping tentatively toward me.  
  
"She knows enough."  
  
"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter. It's over now."  
  
"She said you'd say that. But it's not, is it?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Yeah. I thought so."  
  
"What do you want from me?"  
  
"That's a dangerous question." I couldn't help but laugh a little, mirthlessly. What do I want? I want you to be normal. I want you to tell me that it isn't true, that of course it isn't true, and how could it be, because of course you aren't the kind of person who would do something like this.   
  
"I told you, it's over. Just don't don't push--" She sounded tired now, more than before, but I needed to keep pushing.  
  
"I think I have a right-"  
  
"No, you don't," she says matter-of-factly.  
  
"I think I have a right," I continued, as I had been practicing, "to tell you that you need to choose."  
  
"Fine. I've chosen. I'm here, aren't I?" She came in all the way now, leaning against the wall opposite from me.  
  
I lifted an eyebrow. "Are you?"  
  
"Please don't be obnoxious."  
  
"Stop avoiding the question."  
  
"Stop pressing the answer. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Can I go--" She had never been good at arguing. I remembered the way her fights with Dad used to end; he'd still be talking or yelling and she'd just walk away. Later he'd come back, or she would, and then they'd talk in low tones, so low I couldn't hear, until it was over and everyone was happy again. That wasn't going to happen this time.  
  
"No. We have to talk about this."  
  
"I really don't want to talk about anything right now."  
  
"Well, that's just too fucking bad, isn't it?" I stood up, getting closer to her now. The force of my own anger surprised me, though, and I couldn't come up with any more words for a minute.

_I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche   
sometimes you make me lose my will to live  
and just become a beacon for your soul  
but the past is stronger   
than my will to forgive  
forgive you or myself, I don't know_

"Okay," she said calmly, which was actually more infuriating than if she'd gotten angry, yelled back, swore. "What do you want to talk about?"  
  
"How could you do it?"  
  
"You can't possibly understand. God knows I don't. It just happened."  
  
"Things like that don't just happen," I said through gritted teeth.  
  
"Look, frankly, I'm not sure what you have to be so--" It was a weak argument, and she knew it.   
  
"You don't know _why_--"  
  
"That's not I just don't--"  
  
"You don't think I have a right to be a little bit upset when I find out that--I can't even say it."  
  
"Well, you won't have to think about it anymore." But I will. Don't you get it? Every day. Every second.  
  
She was quiet for so long that I wondered if she'd fallen asleep. I didn't know what I was waiting for.  
  
"Did you even think--did you even think about how we would be affected?"  
  
"I didn't plan on you finding out," she answered quickly, too quickly, and I could tell right away that she regretted it. "That's no. I did think--I don't know."  
  
"I just--"  
  
"No, that's enough." She came closer, close enough to touch, and it seemed like something had finally snapped, though I couldn't tell whether whatever it was had snapped in her or in me. "I don't feel like sitting here and being berated by you right now about my bad choices. I'm more than capable of punishing myself for it, okay? Just-go to bed," she ordered, as if she still had motherly jurisdiction. But she didn't, and I wasn't sure she ever would again. 

_I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche  
tumbling and falling down the avalanche  
so be quiet tonight be sure to step lightly  
on this mountain of new fallen snow  
but I will raise up my voice into the void  
you have left me nowhere to go_

I was tempted to go like she'd said, to sleep and pretend that none of this happened in the morning, just keep pretending until it became true. But something possessed me, to use Fi's terminology, and I grabbed her by the wrist.   
  
"We need to talk," I told her. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look hurt. She just looked tired, as if the life inside her was simply gone, and she was just a body going through the motions now. She pulled her arm back but I gripped more tightly and she stopped struggling.   
  
"Okay," she said, calmly, infuriatingly, again. "Let's talk. Go ahead," she encouraged tolerantly. I could feel my anger rising. She knew, too. She knew the effect she was having. Suddenly it hit me: this was her method of fighting back. Maybe it had been the way she won her fights against Dad. No raised voices, just these mind tricks. I just stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at her. Finally I let go, stepped back, and she sighed heavily. "Look, it is over. I'm sorry. It was just a mistake."  
  
I couldn't form any coherent sentences, so I stayed quiet. "It might be hard, but we'll get through this, okay?" It was her turn to come closer to me now. "We will. I promise. It's over."   
  
She reached out to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I stepped away. "Don't touch me."  
  
She just nodded, a little sadly, and retreated to her bedroom. I heard the door close and lock. I decided to go to sleep, too, wash the aftertaste of this whole night away. Maybe in the morning she would be right. Maybe we would get through it. Right now, though, I really couldn't see how things could ever be the same.

_I'm riding shotgun down the avalanche_


	16. broken

AN: The song is "Where Do I Begin?" by Jill Sobule.

where do I begin? where do I begin?  
to clean up this mess I made, where do I begin?  
what corner of the room I better pick up soon, before I can't find myself?  
better pick up soon, 'cause over there is the ashes of the bridges that I've burned  
and over there is the stack of the same lesson learned  
and over there is my lover underneath the dying fern  
where do I begin?

"So he's gone, huh?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"He didn't say goodbye."  
  
"He did to me," Fiona shrugged indifferently.  
  
"Oh."  
  
She just made a face into her cereal bowl.  
  
I tried again. "Do you think he went to see Gabe?"  
  
She looked at me like I was stupid.  
  
"Not Gabe," I deduced.  
  
"No. Not Gabe."  
  
I sat down across from her at the table and waited for her to say something else. When she stubbornly remained silent, I sighed and laid my head down on the table. She crunched her cereal methodically.  
  
"I give up."  
  
I lifted my head and stared straight at her, hoping to shove her off the precarious edge of faked calmness, shake her up a little. She just looked back at me as if she had no idea what I could be talking about. Oh, yeah. She was mad. But then, she had a right to be. Of course she did. Well, she did and she didn't, you know? I still didn't--I mean, of course I realized that what I had done was certainly hurtful to her, I could see that, and in some way I really had known that it would be from the very beginning.   
  
But on the other hand, this was my life, and hadn't I spent enough of it in service, in mourning, in stasis, just waiting for something to happen, waiting for something to change? And now it had, and we had been happy, when we were, and it had been such an incredible relief not to have this burden of what had somehow become my life on my shoulders for those brief periods of time when the circumstances weren't forcing their way into my mind, screaming "You can't do this anymore!" I always knew the age difference would be a problem, but it was never a problem between us when we were together; it was only a problem when the reactions of others were taken into consideration.  
  
She was still gazing back at me, unblinking. I couldn't decide whether to be apologetic or angry. "All right, I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. What can I do about it now? The damage has been done. I understand that you're upset, but what else can I do for you? It's over. I can't go back in time and make it not happen."  
  
She didn't say anything. What could she say? What did I want her to say? Oh, yeah, you're right, I'm completely okay with the idea that you've been screwing around with the boy you know I've always loved. And she would call him a boy, wouldn't she, just to rub it in. She did have a lot of her father in her. I waited. She wasn't going to say, "You're right." She wasn't going to come to her senses. How could I expect that? So I decided not to expect that. I decided not to expect anything. I had done my part. I had sworn him off, even if he didn't know it yet. Jack might be gone this morning, but I knew one day he'd come back, because I had done my part. So now she was the only one left to decide whether that was good enough to satisfy her moral outrage, however unjustified I secretly thought it might be. It occurred to me that I could no longer talk to her like she was a child, my child; suddenly she was an adult, demanding to be dealt with in adult terms, a shift I wasn't sure I was ready to consider.  
  
"What do you want from me?" she asked, as I had hoped she wouldn't. "What do you want me to do? Do you want me to tell you it's okay? Well, it's not okay. I'm not okay."  
  
"I know, I just--"  
  
"No," she interrupted. "I really am not okay with this. With you. With what you've done."  
  
"Well, I really don't think I--"  
  
"But as long as it's over, as long as you tell me it was a mistake and it's not going to happen again, then... I don't know what, exactly, will happen then." She paused. "But it might make it easier to look at you."  
  
"All right," I said calmly. "It's over. It was a mistake, and it's not going to happen again."

where do I begin? where do I begin?  
to clean up this mess I made, where do I begin?  
what corner of the room I better pick up soon, before I can't find myself?  
better pick up soon, 'cause over there is the guitar with the broken string  
and over there is the cat that I forgot to feed  
and over there is the memory of a beautiful broken dream  
where do I begin?

"All right," she replied, and we sat there in the sunlight for a few moments, silent, as she drank the milk out of her bowl and I watched her.  
  
"You didn't--" I wasn't quite sure how to approach the subject. The most direct method was never my favorite, but I was out of ideas. "You didn't tell Irene about any of this, did you?"  
  
She arched an eyebrow, amused, and didn't answer.  
  
"I mean, I know, I know that you might--"  
  
"Relax. We didn't say anything."  
  
"We? Oh, you and Jack. Well, okay. Just you know, I was just curious."  
  
She shook her head. "I don't know why we didn't, exactly, but we didn't. We could have. Maybe we should have." She eyed me, drumming her fingers on the table, making me nervous. "I mean, really, what would you say if you were her and she was you and he was Jack?"  
  
"I'd probably say 'Help, we've been attacked by body-switching aliens.'"  
  
She cracked a joyless smile. "Seriously, though."  
  
"I I don't know what I'd say. But I guess I'd have a better sense of understanding about it, about how things can happen between two people that make their age and their roles irrelevant, about how there can be a connection that--" I paused. It was a pathetic argument. Maybe I should have said: look, Fiona, I know it's difficult for you to wrap your mind around, but it's not like I raped him.   
  
It didn't matter; pathetic or not, my argument had served its purpose. She wrinkled her nose. "Okay!" She put her hands up in a surrendering gesture. "I wasn't that interested. Really."   
  
And I just laughed, an empty gesture that closed the conversation. The morning passed without incident, without a phone call from Jack, without another argument.  
  
It was almost frightening how easy it had been to decide to make that sacrifice, to fly instead of fight, frightening because instead of feeling too much, like I usually did, I didn't feel much of anything at all. Just empty. Drained. I hadn't slept much the night before. When I told Carey the dreams were gone, it was a lie. It would be nice to think he had cured me, helped to drive out my demons, but I was incurably infested. Always had been, always would be. The dreams were less brutal now, at least, but maybe it just seemed that way because I was used to them. Clearly, avoiding sleep altogether hadn't worked--it had, in fact, only seemed to better serve their apparent purpose, since avoiding sleep had nearly killed me. Now the only thing I could do was surrender. It was a motif. I surrendered to sleep, surrendered to my nightly death, surrendered to my children, surrendered to the easy way out.   
  
Now all I had to do was find a way to convince him to let go. I remembered love at that age, when it seems too rare to fathom the idea of giving it up just because you have to. I remember the first time my heart was broken. It never really healed. I hated doing that to him, but clinging to this would only be worse. He would get tired of me. One day he would wake up and say, what the hell am I doing here? What have I done? And I'd live in fear of that day the entire time we were together, if I didn't do this now. Yes, it would be best for him. And it would be best for me. Judy had asked if he was bad for me; of course he wasn't, that was ridiculous. She was asking the wrong question. I, on the other hand, was bad for everyone. I could only hurt him, just as I'd ended up hurting Rick, and the others before and after him, the way I'd hurt my own children, even. It almost seemed easier when I thought about what I needed to do now as ultimately beneficial for him, because thinking about it any other way made the prospect nearly unbearable.

where do I begin? where do I begin?  
to clean up this mess I made, where do I begin?  
what corner of the room I better pick up soon, before I can't find myself?  
better pick up soon, 'cause over there is the stack of the unpaid bills  
and over there is the couch with the unexplained spill  
and over here is the lonely heart that can't be filled  
where do I begin...


End file.
